


Spell

by mrsfizzle



Category: DCU, Smallville, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Exhaustion, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Blood, Pain, Sweet, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29880972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsfizzle/pseuds/mrsfizzle
Summary: 4x8, Spell. Lex is put under a spell that forces him to play the piano until his fingers split open, but Martha takes care of him.
Relationships: Martha Kent & Lex Luthor
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	Spell

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short snippet. Takes place during 4x8, Spell. Assume an AU in which Lex, at some point, has been adopted in the Kent family.
> 
> (This was originally pre-written for a later scene in Truth & Justice, but based on the plot direction I've set into motion, this really isn't going to happen in that timeline).

The spell took care of his need for a restroom—the thought barely crossed Lex's mind for twenty-four hours. That was its only mercy.

The ache in his back and neck came first. He wished he'd bought a better piano bench; he'd just kept the one that came with the piano. Usually he didn't play for more than a half an hour; he couldn't spare the time. He wasn't used to sitting up for so long. An hour after the spell was cast, the ache was nearly unbearable; two hours later, it was numb enough to be only a mild annoyance.

His left hand cramped up for the first time around the time his back stopped hurting, and then each cramped once or twice an hour after that. He longed to massage away the tension, but there was nothing he could do. The spell didn't let up on him through the spasms—if anything, it pressed his muscles harder, forcing gasps of pain through his lips as the muscles refused to relax themselves for minutes at a time.

The hunger hit him before the thirst. He had spent so long staring at the manuscripts, he hadn't eaten since the night before. For an hour or two, it was the worst of his discomfort, until he swallowed and his throat closed up due to the dryness. It occurred to him that if no one found him, dehydration might be what killed him. He had, at best, a few days.

Then there was the fatigue. The colored shadows from the stained glass windows shifted, and the room dimmed until he could barely see his ever-moving hands, and he found, mercifully, he barely had to keep his eyes open to maintain his private concert. He never slept well—his night terrors had only intensified since his time on the island—but this was something different entirely. His whole body ached desperately to rest.

His fingertips were the last and loudest to complain. The soft pads wore down little by little with each contact with the keys, growing more and more tender. When the sun was just starting to rise, the dull throbbing in his right index finger gave way to sharp sting. He opened his eyes just wide enough to see the faint smear of blood he'd left behind.

At first, it was no worse than a bad paper cut, but friction tore through the skin of each fingertip in turn, and over and over, he was forced to press the fresh, deepening cuts into the warm, acidic remains of the blood on the keys. When the skin was gone and only the shredded remains of his flesh remained to strike the cruelly solid surfaces, his fingers felt as though they were on fire; fire that steadily intensified and never cooled.

That's when the room began to swim.

He couldn't help it. He squeezed his eyes shut, but that only caused the warm tears to roll down his cheeks. He took deep breaths and blinked rapidly, but it was too late—the floodgates had opened. For what might have been minutes and might have been hours, his body shook with silent sobs.

In the end, though, the exhaustion won, even over the pain. The tears slowed, then stopped, then dried, and his head hung.

By the time Clark arrived later in the morning, ignoring the piano music and going on and on about something Lex couldn't hear, Lex couldn't speak at all, not even to cry out for help. Only when Clark asked him directly what he was doing did Lex awaken enough to look up.

Clark knelt down next to him and grabbed his arms. "Stop! Stop it!"

"I can't."

Clark pushed the piano away, and somehow, that was enough to break the spell. Lex was too exhausted to feel relieved.

Clark kept his grip on Lex's arms, keeping him upright. "Lex, what happened?"

"Lana," he said, and knew no more.

* * *

Lex woke up on the Kents' couch in their living room.

Martha knelt on the floor beside the coffee table, opening her first aid kit.

He pushed himself into an upright position. "Mom?"

"Hey, you're awake! How're you feeling?"

"Um . . . thirsty."

She picked up a glass of water from the table. "I thought you might be."

He tried to take it from her, but his fingertips flared up in pain with the touch, and he pulled back. Luckily, she hadn't let go.

"Maybe try both hands?"

He managed to carry the glass with his palms, though he felt like a child doing so.

He handed back the empty glass, and she set it aside, then held out a hand. "Okay, Lex, let me see your fingers."

"I don't want an antiseptic." He immediately chided himself—on top of drinking water like a little kid, he sounded like one.

"And I don't want you to get an infection." Rather than wait for him, she picked up his right hand, turning it over.

It looked as bad as it felt. While he was pretty sure the cuts on each finger were actually quite small, the blood had had time to stain his fingertips all around. The repeated pressure hadn't allowed them to scab properly, either, and it had left the skin bruised as well as broken.

Martha hissed. "Okay. I'm going to be as quick as I can, Lex."

He nodded, and she ripped open a little paper envelope with an antiseptic wipe.

At the first touch to his index finger, his hand jerked back away from her. It was involuntary. She pulled back also, startled.

"I—I'm so sorry." He gave her his hand back, palm up, stiffening his arm so he couldn't pull away again.

"Try to relax." She took a much firmer grip on his wrist this time, and pressed the antiseptic into his fingertip.

" _Ow!_ " It was like liquid fire. She scrubbed at his fingertip, and it was all he could do to keep from crying out as it felt like the skin was being sanded away and burned at the same time.

But when she put aside the wipe for a moment, in the moment before she bandaged it, he caught a glimpse of what remained. It was still red, and the cut was rimmed with purple, but it didn't look nearly as bad as it had.

Cleaned and covered, it was still sore, throbbing lightly, but the sting was tolerable.

_Nine to go._

"You're doing great. I'm going to give you some ice to hold onto when I'm done here," she said, and set his middle finger on fire with the antiseptic.

He hissed, his hand twitching a little, but then he set his jaw and managed to get through without making much noise.

His fourth finger wasn't as bad as the first two because the cut wasn't as deep, but his fifth was more sensitive, and his eyes watered without his consent—thankfully, he was able to blink back his tears before she looked up at him.

His whole hand tensed up when she got to his thumb, and began to cramp. He gasped.

"Okay, okay," Martha whispered, and set aside the antiseptic wipe for a moment, her fingers encircling Lex's hand instead. She traced firm circles with her thumb into the center of his palm, then massaged gently around the edges, until the muscles relaxed.

However temporarily, the soreness receded.

She finished bandaging his thumb and gave him a cold compress for his right hand before taking his left. At that point, he knew better what to expect. He managed to hold back his whimpering by focusing on the relief brought by the cold pack rather than the pain from the antiseptic wipe.

"Okay, sweetie, we're done." She gave his left hand a quick squeeze, careful to avoid his fingers, before allowing him to grip the cold compress with both hands. "Do you want to talk about anything?"

"What did Clark tell you?"

"He said he found you playing the piano while your fingers bled, and you said something about Lana."

"I think something's going on with her, but I don't know what. Somehow, it was like she put some kind of spell on me . . ." It sounded insane. If it weren't for the things he knew Martha encountered on an everyday basis, he wouldn't have expected her to believe him.

"A spell to force you to play the piano?"

"I couldn't stop. It lasted more than twenty-four hours. It was . . . terrifying . . ."

She came over to sit beside him and put her arms around him. "I can only imagine."

He rested her head on her shoulders and let his eyes rest for a moment. It was over. He was safe.

Lifting his eyelids felt like it took ten times the effort it normally did. "I—I'm sorry, I've been up all night."

"Why don't you go back to sleep? I'll wake you up when it's dinnertime."

"Thanks, Mom," he said.

She picked up a blanket from the arm of the couch and draped it over him before leaning down to kiss his forehead. He rolled over, still gripping the ice with both hands, and drifted off.


End file.
